


the christmas special

by melforbes



Series: witch bedelia [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: MERRY CHRISTMAS WITCHES, but hey this is a christmas special so it will be cheesy, cheesier than usual, the next installment will be more to their speed and less cheesy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-02 18:04:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16792000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melforbes/pseuds/melforbes
Summary: even witches can't avoid family around the holidays





	the christmas special

**Author's Note:**

> Quotations about Celtic witchcraft and history are drawn from _Celtic Lore and Spellcraft of the Dark Goddess: Invoking the Morrigan_ by Stephanie Woodfield.

He learned that she owns a coat the day that their Christmas tree went up.

“You’re not going to be cutting anything down,” she gave that day as they went to the coat-closet, as she bypassed the cloaks for each season and found a tucked-away wool coat, worn with age, grey in color though it may have been black in its earlier years. In the basement, she had plenty of manual saws, simple tools for property management, a generous allotment of preserved entities in mason jars. Walking out to his car, she held cables clenched in one pale hand, a single saw in the other. He made sure she didn’t forget her gloves.

For once, they didn’t stick out in a public place, just a couple in coats looking to cut down a tree at a farm. Around them, children flitted about in felt hats, dogs bounding through the recent snow, parents batting at the tree-branches in hope of drying off the snowy branches. He watched how she lifted her skirt, one for working that she typically wore to garden or bake, as they walked, how she crouched before a tree fit for the corner of their living room, how she could drag the whole thing to the car herself. While other men around him played the _useful husband,_ the one who was doing the heavy-lifting, he was more than happy to oppose the archetype. She hoisted the tree onto the top of the car, spread cables over it, dominated the space despite her height’s disadvantage. Still, she stood by the passenger’s side door afterward, breath dragoning beyond her bright lips, and waited until he opened the door for her, dared not open it herself. Of course, they then stuck out, but he was more than happy to have their eccentricity come from a place of being a proper gentleman.

When half of her light-strings didn’t work, he drove them both into town, going to Tractor Supply and walking through the aisles like two people who were simultaneously outcasts and residents; though she bought her muck-boots and cat food here, watching her clothes billow as she walked, the movement of her gown and cloak as she slid to a stop at the decorations portion of the store, showed that somewhere a little more upscale, somewhere in the city, was where she truly belonged.

“We should travel to Boston,” he said quietly to her while she sought out the white lights, the less common ones, the ones that she thought showed refinement unlike the multicolored ones. “To celebrate.”

Finding a proper package, checking the length of the strand, she half-smirked, glancing up at him for a moment, fingers dainty and old-fashioned upon such a modern package.

“I would like to see the ballet,” she gave, then took two more packages of lights and headed for the checkout.

On the way out of the shop, her hand choking a tote full of their lights, the Salvation Army ringer out front, clad in red and wearing a great big smile, wished her a _very merry Christmas,_ and looking directly his way, she scowled and moved on. Once again, Hannibal opened the passenger’s side door for her, and by the time he pulled out of the parking lot, he could still see the dumbfounded look on the ringer’s face, blank and uncomfortable.

When he hung her cloak in the closet back home, he saw her only coat again, one single coat among silk, velvet, high-end insulation in a garment one could hardly find anywhere else. His own outerwear took up only a quarter, maybe less, of the closet, his boots tucked to the side, her shoes dominating. In the living room, she put on a Christmas record, a medley of Judy Garland and Bing Crosby, the record skipping with cat-scratches. Nuala, the sensitive grey tabby, was at Bedelia’s bare feet as Bedelia tested lights, began stringing them along the needles of the tree. The fireplace was warm enough for Morgana, the Siamese named Claire, and a grey munchkin named Aoife to warm up on the hearthstones, licking their paws and closing their little eyes. In the past month, Hannibal felt as if there had suddenly been a few more cats, not many but still a few, the odd contrast making him wonder if that white cat had always been here. Though he kept meaning to ask her about it, he felt an odd sensation of being out of his own body when he thought such things, as if there was a cosmic reasons as to why he should avoid the subject, a warning from the gods.

From the doorway to the living room, he watched as she stood on tiptoe to string lights, her long braid moving farther down her back as she looked up, the grey fabric of her dress contrasting the freckles on her ivory wrists. She had the candles on the windowsills lit, spiced orange pomanders mixing with the scent of pine to create a holiday medley in the room; the sound of old music and the warmth of the fire made a proper backdrop for her, a perfect home. Still, he could picture taking her to a high-end hotel in Boston, taking her to shows and pretending to eat with her at restaurants while they took his meal in a box for her to enjoy hours later. He wanted to see what ideas he could give her at Shreve, Crump, and Low. He wanted to see her beneath the lights of a big tree in the main square, her blonde hair colorfully lit, her blue eyes reflecting the brightness of the season. He wanted to celebrate with her.

So now he takes her hand as they leave their harborfront hotel, his leather gloves against hers a testament to the chill of the season. Her cloak is long and red, billowy despite its heavy velvet fabric, so bright against the lights around them that he can watch how all those close to them marvel at her, at how someone so beautiful is so vividly alive in front of them. She spent time on her hair, so now, when he looks to her, he notices the intricacies of how she’s woven braids together into an updo, how baby’s-breath flowers fit naturally among blonde curls. With her lipstick matching her cloak and gown, her cheeks highlighted with silver, she looks otherworldly, exquisite, as enchanting as she did when they first met. Leading her into the limousine parked in front of the hotel, he guides her inside, helps with the folds of her gown, finally sits alongside her feeling as if his high-end suit leaves him looking under-dressed.

By the time they’re no longer parked, heading toward city traffic, he’s taken from his thoughts of their itinerary, what they’ll do tomorrow, how long they have before the ballet this evening begins, and he just looks at her, her gloves coming off to rest on her lap, her eyes bright with makeup and underlying joy. Though he loves their home together, knows so deeply how they both belong there, he’s overcome with enchantment for this side of her, one that asks him to zip her deep red gown, one he can’t kiss for fear that he’ll end up with lipstick on his face; there are so many beautiful sides of her, so much depth to her character that he’s left stunned like this all too often, finding some new part that surprises him but simultaneously makes him feel as if he’s just been waiting until this part could shine through.

Against the walls of the car, she taps a painted finger twice, three times, almost nervously. Looking to her, he tries to ask silently what’s wrong, but then, he watches beyond the car’s windows as a light, unpredicted snow begins to fall, the flakes fat and obvious but the temperature beyond them too warm to ice the roads. He has no doubt that the snow will stop at a convenient time for them to walk into the theatre, ensuring that her hair and clothes stay dry and well-kept. _What a coincidence,_ he thinks, knowing wholeheartedly that this could never have been a coincidence.

Reaching out, he takes her small hand in both of his, thumbs tracing her metatarsals, feeling the luxurious give of skin against skin; he brings her hand to his lips, kisses delicately, afraid of wrinkling her skirt, creasing her makeup, putting frizz in her hair. With hooded eyes, he looks at her, sees simultaneous thanks and almost pity in her eyes, saying _yes, this is exactly what I deserve, to have you bow to me like this, to be someone who is indulged._ The snow beyond the limousine’s windows only makes her glow more, even as the flurries fade away once they are outside of the theatre. He’ll escort her to their box, helping with her voluptuous skirts, watching how those around them fawn. Sometimes, when they’re at the tack shop or purchasing groceries, he watches as little girls look up at her, clad in cloaks and gowns, blonde hair looking regal in curls or a braid. Multiple times, girls have asked for a _picture with the princess,_ and once, with the recent onset of winter, Bedelia was mistaken for a character in a children’s film, an ice queen with a beautiful singing voice and a matching blonde braid, and for the sake of imagination, Bedelia went along with the mistake, deftly avoiding any kind of singing because of how much he knows she dislikes it. He has a feeling that they’ll be delayed tonight and not because of the layers of cloth in her skirt.

But every delay is worthwhile to help her up red velvet steps, her crystal-adorned shoes peeking out from beneath her dress, her movements looking effortless despite how much effort he knows they require. At the box, he watches as she unclasps her cloak, offers it to him to hang, and with the exposure of her pale collarbones from the Bardot neckline, the soft skin there that he’s felt so many times, he feels he’s falling in love with her again, with how enigmatic she is, with how faceted she is, with how willing she has been to let her own blood flow within his body. Though they haven’t been together long, he finds that sitting alongside her during the performance, feeling her hand come to his own as if she’s grown somehow lonely, makes the possibility of marriage horrendously accessible, as if he’s meant to be thinking such thoughts so soon. He can’t ask her before the end of the year, he knows, but he still wants to do so soon.

Though it’s not even Christmas yet, he has an inkling of what he could give her for her birthday in the spring.

* * *

She makes him a needlepoint stocking in between clients, sitting in a big armchair in front of the fire, a cat or two coming to sit on her lap or at her feet as she works. Already, she’s hung her solitary stocking on the mantle, the design of mistletoe and tinsel beautiful but strangely out of character. At the top, she has her name done in gold thread; his will match in that way, the remainder of the pattern left to be a surprise that she diligently hides each time he comes into the room with her lunch.

Though he does a majority of the cooking, the slowness of the winter days, the snow-covered ground keeping her from gardening and the poor roadways leading to more called-in orders than in-person ones, has brought her into the kitchen, taking off whatever record he has playing and putting on something she considers _better,_ slipping her palm across his back and to his hip as he stands over the section of the stove claimed as _his._ The cats would mewl as she moves her shoulders ever-so-minutely to Wanda Jackson, trying to take his attention away from the roux, the soup, whatever he happened to be searing. By the time she starts moving her hips, he knows better than to ignore her, but he would never allow himself a reputation for burning things, so he grew less tolerant with each instance, saying _later_ though he was hardly enthused by such a response.

So nowadays, she kneads bread alongside him, the cats circling her legs, her steady hands pushing up the sleeves of her dress each time, her apron speckling with counter-flour. When they have slower mornings, he makes her French toast using the near-stale brioche she baked; the busier mornings are for an egg over easy on rosemary bread with a hearty drizzle of olive oil purchased at one of the ornate, rich shops in Boston. For lunch today, he brings her a sandwich cut from a loaf of her whole wheat bread, the slices smeared with basil pesto frozen from the fall harvest in her garden. Spinach, warm mozzarella, sliced heirloom tomatoes, he knows that she likes something simpler for lunch, frequently having dinners of seared meat and roasted vegetables; he’s sliced the sandwich in half, making proper presentation by arranging a little cup of pomegranate seeds and some seasoned cucumbers alongside on the plate. He loves the way she hides her needlepoint when he comes in, loves how she looks up at him with a soft, involuntary smile.

“Come,” she says, setting her work aside, pulling Morgana from her lap and setting the cat down at her feet. She reaches out for him, tells him, “Sit.”

Obliging, he leaves the plate on a side-table, comes to her lap, his legs dangling down to the carpet and tangling with hers. Her hands around his back, she pulls him toward her, tilts her chin up and closes her eyes as she kisses him, gently and softly, casually and languidly. They enjoy having the house to themselves like this, the work secondary to the life within the house, the two of them blending in with the cats as they lounge and scatter. He likes that he doesn’t have to wait until the end of her workday to kiss her.

She stills as she hears a knock at the door, two frantic taps, then an almost scampering-away sound. In seconds, there’s the sound of ripping paper, of something rubbing against the hardwood of the front doorway, and she jerks one arm away from him just in time to catch a ricocheting letter heading straight for the back of his head, the envelope off-white and addressed with quill calligraphy, her name inscribed with no return address. Mumbling something incomprehensible, she pushes him away, falls back into the chair, opens the letter with one deft thumbnail.

“Read this to me,” she says, forcing the letter toward him, taking her lunch-plate with a variety of anguish he’s never seen in her before.

Flummoxed, he pulls the note from the envelope - no stamp, he notices - and looks over the script, the scrawl, the handwriting so beautiful that it’s practically incomprehensible. Then again, it _is_ incomprehensible; though he’s not sure what language this was written in, he knows most definitely that it’s not one he speaks, nor is it one adjacent to any that he speaks.

“I can’t read this,” he concedes, leaving the letter where her lunch-plate had been and going to sit down in a nearby chair. From the floor, Morgana eyes him, beady yellows acting as if he is still a threat.

After a bite of sandwich, she picks up the note, nods in understanding, in apology.

“ _Gaeilge,_ ” she excuses, as if he’s supposed to know what that means. “The Irish language.”

“A holiday card from your relatives?”

She looks up at him from the letter, one brow raised.

“A fair explanation,” she says curtly.

Taking her reading glasses from the side-table, she looks over the note, takes another bite of sandwich, continues reading. Once she finishes with the note, she looks up at him, gaze rivaling Morgana’s with intensity, and asks, “How many can you cook for?”

“I can cook for any number of people.”

“Yes, but how many can you cook for here?” she asks. “In our kitchen.”

He weighs the options, considers the new stovetops that she once fought him tooth and nail over, offers, “Any number over ten would be uncomfortable.”

Huffing a breath, she seems to curse to herself, so he must’ve given an improper answer.

“Are we to host your family?” he asks.

“I have no family.”

“Extended family?”

“A coven,” she gives. “Or, part of one.”

“Your coven?”

“I have no coven.”

“Old friends?”

She rolls her eyes.

“Old acquaintances.”

“Couldn’t we say no?”

“For Yule?” She huffs again. “It would be of great offense to them.”

“I wouldn’t mind Christmas guests,” he says, “but if _you_ would-”

“Not Christmas,” she says. “The twenty-first and twenty-second. The winter solstice.”

“So we will _not_ be having Christmas guests.”

She sighs and lifts a pointer finger, swirls the finger in the air with haphazard disgrace, and opens her palm so that a book from her shelves can be drawn in as if magnetized to her hand. Flipping through the book, a somewhat recent one that is well-worn with use rather than with age, she finds a proper page, drags the pad of her finger down each line until she can find the explanation; before he can realize that anything has changed, the book is on his lap, the proper line making itself strangely clear to him.

_The Winter Solstice marks the longest night of the year. The sun god is reborn on this night, and the hours of sunlight increase in the coming days-_

“It’s your religious holiday,” he offers, looking up at her.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

In seconds, the book is back on the shelf, tossing up dust from the older grimoires, making two of the nearby cats fuss.

“They’re looking for a host.” _Like parasites,_ he hears her mumble to herself. She picks up her lunch-plate again and continues eating. “The druids out of New York find hosting to be an inconvenience to all parties involved, half of the coven is in Galway visiting family, and the remaining members have no desire to take flights for the holiday.”

“You’re their last option.”

“I’m their _reach._ ”

“But have you ever been a part of this coven?”

She pauses, takes a moment he knows she hopes he didn’t see, then says, “Only peripherally.”

“We could refuse them.”

“I’ve never liked being the subject of gossip.”

He pauses, furrows his brow; rolling her eyes, she clarifies, “ _Coven_ gossip.”

So he starts a menu that evening, thinking that four courses should be proper, planning somehow on fitting eight witches or druids from some coven or group, none of which he knows anything about, into their home. She takes to the basement, turning on the cobwebbed lights and going downstairs, pulling her skirts up as she goes; he’s debating between serving fish or veal. Fish for one course, veal for another? His favorite fish recipe contains butter. Do these women mix meat with milk? Do they eat meat at all? Do they consider fish to be a meat? On a notepad with Bedelia’s business’ logo and information printed at the top, he makes notes: _meat, milk, fish, vegetarian._ Then, he shakes the nerves off, asking what he’s aiming to do in the first place. Please her un-relatives? Based on the stomping she did down the basement steps, she must not even like these people. Why does he want to please them? _Because they are witches,_ he tells himself. _Or druids. I doubt I’ll ever know the difference, but what I do know is that I am not one of them and that such a thing could put me - or Bedelia - in a precarious situation._

Not sure what else he can do, unable to plan a menu without knowing undesirable contents, he goes down to the basement, tries to find her and ask, but he’s too stunned to speak by the sight of the once-unfinished place, now finished, carpeted, and furnished, with bright windows in places where he knows no sunlight can reach. There are beds bunked with standard-but-pretty linens on top, pillows arranged decoratively, luggage-stands left between the bedframes. Leaning against one of the walls - now painted a relaxing shade of blue - she closes her eyes and takes deep breaths, as if she’s just physically exerted herself. There’s sweat on her brow.

When she opens her eyes, she meets his gaze, sees his askance and shock, then huffs a breath and says, “I hate having company.”

* * *

The first shock of the Solstice is that she refers to him as her husband.

While he carries suitcases in from the litter of old cars parked out front, the ladies staying with them ask, _who is he?_ Some of them are clearly Irish, speaking English or Irish in every other word, but others are English, Bostonian, from certain parts of New York. There are eight women total, some druids and some witches; Hannibal is not yet sure of the exact distinction. They range in age from twenty-six to seventy.

“A husband?” one of the women asks, a little shocked in an unflattering way. “I hadn’t known.”

“When were you married?” another asks.

As he walks down the basement stairs, he can’t hear the women anymore, but he does manage to catch Bedelia’s lie of _just over two years ago._

The house has been scrubbed to the point that the cats are temperamental, pawing at their washed beds and wondering why things have grown so different in only a few days. For dessert this evening, Bedelia baked a chocolate-mint three-layer cake, the mint having been frozen from the garden; Hannibal made the thick buttercream, white and sprinkled with silver-colored sugars, beautiful and ornate for before the longest night of the year. Dinner will be three courses, the living room rearranged to accommodate a previously-stored dining table, and right after dinner, before the Yule festivities can begin, he’ll be gone to find his own dinner, to leave the witches alone. Because of the potential controversy of what she’s now calling _their marriage,_ she feels it more appropriate to keep his vampirism secret. _I have no love for these people,_ she gave the evening beforehand, _so I feel no need to be judged or loved by them. I feel no need to expend more of my life than the bare minimum._

But he wants to know the circumstances of their marriage. He knows she must have concocted something, a mention of meeting at an opera in Boston and finding, to their surprise, that they lived near enough to each other to merit a date at a local restaurant days later. He has a hard time believing she would let them take things slowly. As he leaves luggage in the basement, he wonders what kind of ring she’s thinking of. Though he thinks a diamond would be beautiful, he knows enough about her lifestyle and personality to understand that something less cutting-edge, something more nuanced and atypically elegant, is more likely to be her style.

“And why have we never heard of such a husband?” one of the younger women says in the entryway as Hannibal returns; she reaches down at Nuala, the shy, unassertive gray cat, and brings the cat into her arms. Though Hannibal wants to say something, to tell the girl that the cat will simply lock joints and be unmoving for the next few minutes instead of outwardly expressing her disdain for being held by new people, he refrains from speaking. As Bedelia told him, there are things that these people don’t need to know about their lives.

“Elopement,” Bedelia offers with a tight smile. “Very quiet, no witnesses we knew well.”

“Still,” the girl says, tone sugar-sweet and judgmental, “why no word?”

Luckily, one of the older women - a druid, if Hannibal is remembering correctly - interrupts the conversation, takes the girl by the elbow and pulls her into the decorated living room, the table set with Bedelia’s finest candlesticks and cut fir-branches with strung popcorn and cranberries around their bases, a fine centerpiece. Candles on the windowsills are lit, the fireplace roaring with warmth on this cold, snowy December day, light sprinkled throughout this shortest day of the year. In the back of the room, they’ve left the armchairs, the couch flush against one of the tapestried walls; other witches and druids sit among the chairs, one smoking a clove cigarette that he wants to put out for the cats’ sakes, one taking to one of the books on Bedelia’s shelves and commenting about how this author’s idea of the Morrigan is completely warped.

He offers refreshments, a light snack, anything these women could want while they relax in a home that is never going to be their own. Though no one bothers with personal introductions, they all ask for glasses of water, so he retreats to the kitchen, goes into the cabinets to find the pitcher, tray, and glasses. Bedelia is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over her emerald-colored dress, hair long and down as it is on days not intended for working.

“Put the kettle on,” she says as he fills the pitcher with tap water. At Bedelia’s insistence, they weren’t to use anything other than tap water, and he was fairly sure the insistence wasn’t intended to save them money. “They’ll want tea soon enough.”

“I thought you lacked a relationship to these people,” he says as he puts the kettle on.

“I haven’t seen them in years.”

“Then….”

He lets the sentence fade away as he brings glasses to the tray, as he waits for her silent permission to leave the room. In the end, she follows him into the living room, pouring the witches and druids glasses of water, saying that the kettle’s on for tea if anyone would like some. Of course, there are many takers, so he retreats to the kitchen, starts looking for mugs.

“So,” one of the older women asks in the living room, just loudly enough for Hannibal to hear, “does your husband share our heritage?”

“No,” Bedelia says, and somehow, Hannibal can feel the energy within the house change, as if there’s a cosmic reason as to why such an answer is purely incorrect, “he’s not like us.”

“Then what is he?” another woman asks.

“A doctor,” Bedelia says, then quickly covers with, “and a very fine cook. He’s planned a Solstice menu for this evening, before he has to work.”

“Oh, he’s not eating with us?” the first woman says.

“Unfortunately, no,” Bedelia says. “Though this is a holiday for us, people like him still have to attend to their earthly duties.”

It’s a lie, but it’s a good enough one; he has to hunt at some point, so he can’t stay for their dinner, has to find one himself. Though he’ll serve each course to them, the closest thing he will have to a Solstice feast will be the blood of whatever farm animals dare to cross his path. He almost wishes he could have a way to make such a thing festive.

“You’re just like your mother,” another woman chimes in. “Can’t pick men for shit!”

“We’ve _told_ you that there are plenty of men like us,” the younger woman who accosted Nuala says. “They’ve seen pictures of you. They think you’re beautiful. They don’t even mind your profession!”

“The cats, however…” another woman trails off.

“I know that your father corrupted you with messages of humanity and social acceptance,” one of the druids says, “but our reality is one of social _un_ acceptance. Do you think our history is one of assimilation? No, it’s a history of _murder._ We have fought tooth and nail against people like _him_ just to stay alive. Doesn’t your heritage mean anything to you?”

“Oh, there’s no need to be so rough,” another woman says as the kettle hisses. Mentally, Hannibal thanks the woman for having decency, thinks he should add an extra sugar cube to her tea for good measure. However, his thoughts change when she adds, “There are plenty of discreet ways to get rid of a husband, _none_ of which require a pesky divorce!”

The other women laugh but quiet before he can return to the living room with their tea. In a chair among the seated coven members, Bedelia looks ashen, uncomfortable, slightly embarrassed but trying not to be. While pouring mugs, introducing cats to those who asks for names, he manages to look toward Bedelia, to meet her gaze with an apology, to try to show that he’s sorry for whatever he’s done to her. Though he knows these comments aren’t his fault, she looks pale and nervous, embarrassed in a way he’s never seen before, and he hates having anything to do with such a feeling. He wishes he could simply lie and appease these women, then wishes he didn’t feel so threatened by their comments to degrade himself in such a way.

When someone asks when dinner will be served, he gives a tentative _two hours_ and retreats to the kitchen, not wanting to intrude but still afraid to leave Bedelia alone. Though she is perfectly capable of fending for herself, the uncomfortable look on her face has him shaken enough to want to say what she is too polite not to, what he knows he cannot say because of the coven gossip it would stir. While finishing the soup for tonight, while making sure the steaks have marinated long enough, while bringing olive oil and spices to the vegetables to roast, he wishes more than anything that Yule could be a holiday shared between only Bedelia and himself, something quiet within the string of winter holidays, something celebratory in wake of how much longer the days will soon enough be. But for now, all he can do is cook and count down the hours until the coven leaves. He stirs soup and tries not to think.

* * *

After dinner, he pulls his coat from the closet as she crosses her arms over her chest, trying to keep warm in wake of the drafty front door, trying to appear put-together. Though he knows that the little comments, the nicknames that townsfolk have given her and the confusion about what exactly she is, never bother her, the comments are different when they come from family. Not family, he knows, but close enough to family, people who knew her parents, people who should have loved her. And the thought of leaving her here, of no longer being able to meet her gaze from across the room, makes him shiver; he doesn’t want to leave her right now, doesn’t want the druids and witches to question her and berate her while she’s alone. She can handle everything tonight, he understands that deeply, but he doesn’t want her to need to handle everything alone. He wants to support her, even if just through presence. He doesn’t want to have to leave.

Buttoning his coat, he looks to her, tries to communicate such a thing, and based on the tired, half-hooded, gaze-averted look in her eyes, she must understand. And, when she looks up at him with gentleness, with resignation, he understands just how uncomfortably much she wants the same thing.

He doesn’t know what else to say, so he offers, “I’ll be home at ten o’clock.”

Nodding, she unfolds her arms, reaches one hand out to take his. The touch is gentle, tentative, asking for what she has accepted that she cannot have. Next year, they’re going to claim they’re traveling for the holidays, or that his family is coming to town, or anything that means she doesn’t have to go through this again. Of course, she would never ask him to use a lie like that, but nonetheless, he wants to use one. Just for her, though he knows she would never ask.

She stands on tiptoe to kiss him goodbye, a quick touch of the lips before she’s on flat feet again.

“I love you,” she says as a goodbye, the words growing more and more normal between them. He really doesn’t want to leave.

“I’ll be home soon,” he says, then forces himself to head for the door.

When he starts the car, he can still see into the living room’s windows, can see the dimmed lights and the lit candles and the circle of women holding hands. Her braid makes her stand out, her back toward him, her shoulders rising and falling with the start of a spoken spell. Though he hasn’t a clue of what their rituals for tonight are, he knows he can’t be here, so he pulls away from the house, tries to find something with which to occupy himself. Something benign, something normal.

He hopes that no one inside will notice that he drives away in the opposite direction of the hospital at which he claimed to work. 

* * *

When he returns home, having fed on two ill-fated chickens and an unsipped latte at the local coffee shop, he has two library books with him, each on local lore and history. Though he thinks she’s already read these books, he has yet to do so, and while he’s unable to reach her vast library of texts on witchcraft, he figures this is a good place to start. Coming into the house, he sets down the books, unties his boots, hears laughter and the sound of clinking glasses in the living room. So, an after-dinner, after-rituals treat. He knows that Bedelia likes wine, that she appreciates the artistry of the drink, but unlike Bedelia, these women seem as if their current goal is simply to be drunk. When he walks into the living room, books left in the entryway, he sees her sitting in an armchair, the dining table having been cleared away and stored again through some kind of magic, the chairs and couches arranged in a conversational circle; she looks as if she’s had merely a glass of wine and has no desire for another. Around her, the other women are animated with conversation while she merely looks trapped.

“Oh!” one of the older druids says, throwing her arms up and making her long, grey hair spring up in the process. “The husband’s home!”

The other women laugh in a way that he and Bedelia seem not to understand, and then, one of the women offers, “Remember when I had a husband?”

“Which one?” another woman quips, and then, the room is in laughter again, the drunk kind of laughter that seems pitiful to anyone sober.

“Well!” the first woman says. “With _any_ of them, I made sure they didn’t go to bed without me. You know how men are.”

“Never to be trusted!” another woman chimes in, to which a few of the witches give a cheers.

Bedelia’s cheeks flush. Though he’s seen her frustrated with clients, embarrassed for occasional forgetfulness, stressed as a cat is taken to the veterinarian, he’s never seen her genuinely mortified before. Now, she looks small, a kind of small he could never imagine her being, a small that only obligatory, unavoidable relations could make her become. If doing so weren’t socially unacceptable - or, rather, if doing so wouldn’t bring about dreaded coven gossip - he would grab one of these women by her shoulders, pierce her neck, and kill her right in front of all of the other women. He never wants to see Bedelia this uncomfortable again.

Picking up her wine glass and pressing one of the cats off of her lap, one of the younger women quips, “I think that’s our signal to head downstairs.”

The others follow in a trickling succession, steadily lifting themselves from the couches and bringing their uncorked bottles into the basement. As they go, he insists to them that he never meant to intrude, but they all seem happy enough to find their way to the basement, to a place where the conversation can be even more uncouth and uncensored. Even before the last of the coven has gotten to the basement staircase, Bedelia is climbing the stairs toward their bedroom, her curls losing their starch and her dress looking itchy and uncomfortable after a long day. He waits until everyone else is in the basement, then makes sure that every light, every candle, every burning stick of incense is out before he follows her upstairs. Though he itches to see her, to apologize for things that aren’t his fault, to do whatever he can to dull the throbbing pain that the coven has provided, he knows better than to force her into contact, into speaking. He gives her a moment, then goes to look for her.

In their bedroom, she’s already wearing a nightgown, something snow-colored, thin, and soft. He catches her putting night cream on her face, cotton pads stained with makeup left on the vanity, her hair pulled into a braid for the night. Though he usually likes to sneak up on her, stand behind her and lean forward to kiss her while she can’t see him in the mirror, tonight he crouches by her chair in front of the vanity, rests his palm on her bare knee. He looks up and tries to truly see her.

“It’s complicated,” she gives, then stands, walks toward the bathroom.

He follows, brushes his teeth alongside her, watches her take evening supplements and herbs, sees how gracefully she pulls back the comforter and sheets on their bed. With the lights out, the room just warm enough, the night beyond them bright from the moon’s reflection on the snow, he finally feels close to her.

Before he can adjust into a proper position for sleep, before he can even leave his watch on the bedside-table, she comes into his arms, leaves him resting on his back while she reaches across his belly, pulls herself closer to him. He holds her in whatever way he can, then hears the breath she lets out in relief.

After a long silence that makes him think she may have fallen asleep, she says, “They were my mother’s coven, not mine.”

He pauses for a moment, unsure of whether or not she will keep speaking. When it seems courteous to ask, he asks, “Are such things passed down the lineage?”

“They can be,” she offers.

Against his skin, he feels her heart rate slow, and though he’s felt inadequate toward her all night, as if his inaction has caused her pain, he’s thankful for this chance to make things better. Even if he can’t do anything else, he can still hold her. He hopes that can be enough.

“I never wanted to join,” she admits. “It was expected of me, but I didn’t want to. My father didn’t share my mother’s heritage, nor did he share her beliefs. I haven’t the slightest idea as to why they married.”

“What was your father like?”

“Cold,” she says. “He was a doctor, and a good one at that. I rarely saw him.”

“And your mother was more attentive?”

“Yes,” she says, “horribly.”

“What did she think when you chose not to follow this path?”

She huffs a humorless laugh, then says, “She never wanted to speak to me again.”

“But you still practice.”

“I do, but this is not my only practice.”

“There’s no respect for what you do among these women, then.”

“They think I gave up a life of luxury and status,” she says, “but I know what I gave up was shame, contempt, and a false belief of superiority.”

“Does it ever feel lonely?” he asks. “Not being close with other witches?”

“It did once,” she says, “but now, I never feel lonely.”

She tilts her forehead closer to him, bodies together, her warmth feeling so natural against his skin. He cannot fathom how he slept so many nights without her. With other women, with men, he would feel their warmth, their living presence alongside him, but he never felt like this, so encompassed by another person, so valued. He has never been able to show his true self to anyone and still be loved for it until now. In some ways, he thinks she may love him more for those horrible things, for his lack of humanity. He’s never felt so comfortable in being understood.

“Since meeting you,” she says, “I’ve realized how sure I am of this path. I know this is not the life my mother or father wanted for me. My mother wanted me to be a witch, my father a doctor, and I’ve fulfilled neither wish. When they passed, I felt as if I’d caused them nothing but grief, that I had been a wholly inadequate child.”

He could cut in, could reassure her, but he knows she wouldn’t want such things.

“But with you, I feel as though nothing is lacking,” she says. “I feel at home even without a coven. I feel as if my work has meaning, both to others and to myself. And I feel as if what I do is respectable. Though I thought these things before, they were always unsubstantiated, always half-truths, but now, they feel real. I feel no shame over my choices anymore.”

For a moment, he pauses, then asks, “Do the things these women say still hurt you?”

She flusters, then offers, “To some degree, yes.”

“But you no longer believe such statements.”

“I have no reason to,” she says, “but not believing wicked things does not rob those statements of their wickedness.”

“I was worried for you,” he admits. “I felt guilty for leaving you alone with them.”

“I had no desire to be alone with them either,” she says, “but they’ll be gone in the morning. The days will start to get longer. If we’re lucky, they’ll never contact us again.”

He looks down at her, meets her gaze, repeats, “If we’re lucky.”

The soft, relieved smile she offers him is enough to make the discomfort of the whole day disappear. 

* * *

In the early hours of the morning, she wakes him with a gentle touch to the shoulder.

“I’d like to watch the sunrise,” she says, voice as soft as the dim morning light around them, as the bedsheets they are between.

She has a wool wrap to take onto the widow’s walk; he finds a sweater in the closet and follows her out, watching as her wool-socked steps go from indoor to outdoor. Though there’s a distinct, hefty chill, the air feels thin and light, refreshingly wintery. Based on the bit of powder on the road below, as well as on the tops of the more angular gravestones beyond their home, they must’ve had snow overnight.

“The days will grow longer,” she says as she looks out on the color, the partly-cloudy glow of warmth, the pale winter sky a dark shade of pink.

Looking to her, he sees the puffs of her breath, the little bit of redness on her nose. Her skin has grown dry with the cold weather. He loves watching the way she dips two fingers into her extensive pots of cream, then brings the lotion to her face before bed.

“You’ve wanted more sun,” he says, for she has, from the way she moves to the windows in the living room while working to how she wakes earlier and earlier in hope of taking in as many daylight hours as possible. Though he doesn’t feel such a difference himself, he can almost feel it on her behalf. If they weren’t so cold-blooded, he would take her somewhere warm, maybe the Italian coast, maybe an island closer to their country. He’s never seen her warm and tanned before, the thought sounding alluring, seeing the long expanse of her skin as he rubs lotion over it. He wants to know that side of her too.

She nods in agreement, gaze captured by the pale purples and blues, the steady change from night to day, the unsubstantiated claim that this will be daylight even if the day is so seasonally dark.

“This is a time of wants,” she says. “Many wants, not needs.”

She looks to him, ventures, “I’m never quite sure of what you want.”

Meeting her gaze, he sees a vulnerable intensity within her, a strange feeling of distrust within herself.

“You ask almost nothing of me,” she says, almost laments. “I feel at a loss at times.”

She provides him with money, a place to live. She’s opened her home to him in every single way she can. She gives him love. Now, he doesn’t have to run anymore, doesn’t need to hide nearly as much. Instead of leaving a place every month, he can stay now. When he is with her, he knows he belongs, and he feels that she knows too. It was shocking to him just how comforting and life-altering it could be to love someone who understands him.

“It seems to me that what I believe you want is merely a reflection of my own wants.” Her eyes are downcast, almost ashamed. “I need to be able to see the difference between the two.”

He tries to think of a want, tries to give her something to hold on to, but the askance is impossible; there is nothing more he can ask of her, nothing whatsoever. All he wants is for tomorrow to be like today, for their home to continue to be their own, to go to sleep alongside her and make her breakfast each morning. If he could tell her such a thing, he would, but it sounds to him like a reductive statement, not what she’s asking for.

“On Christmas,” he says, giving what he can, “the local theater is screening _It’s a Wonderful Life._ “

Looking up toward him, she asks, “Would you like to go?”

“Yes, I would.”

She nods twice, then looks back out toward the sunset. In a few days, they’ll sit in a middle row and watch a black-and-white movie, her head resting on his shoulder, buttered popcorn for her kept on his lap. He’s wanted to take her on such a date, something casual and normal, something early; though their jaunt to Boston was beautiful, he wants something quieter and more tentative for their relationship, something _first date_ in a courtship. He genuinely would love to see a film with her.

“Thank you,” she says, still watching as the sky turns to a daily blue, a few clouds hanging about, the sun reflecting brightly against the snow.

From now on, the days will grow longer, the sun warming the earth and the snow starting to melt, flowers blooming in spring and her garden coming back to life. She’ll go back to having a farmer’s market booth in the spring; they’ll sell her herb blends, her concoctions, maybe even some bread or pies. Somehow, he finds it shocking that this has been a dark portion of their life together, that he has yet to know her in the sun, for he can already picture her at the farmer’s market booth, eating a fresh peach in large bites, waiting for the regulars who want honey-ginger tonic, a blend of Chinese herbs, salve for aching muscles. He can’t wait to watch how daylight stays around longer, how sunset shines in on her living room work hours more. He wants to know her in greater warmth.

By midday, the guests will be gone, and they will curl up together in the living room and read, warmth and quiet all around them, the fire lit while the cats rest on the hearthstones. They will have a few more days before Christmas, and then, they’ll spend the morning opening gifts, the afternoon seeing the film, the evening cooking together and relaxing. Though he had Christmases as a boy, he hasn’t had any since coming to this country, barely any since his transformation. He wonders momentarily if it has been a long time since she last spent a Christmas with someone else.

She turns to him, breath coming in a puff from her lips as she asks, “Shall we go inside?”

Taking her hand, he leads her back in, their longest night having finally come to its close.

* * *

On Christmas morning, he makes her French toast while she sleeps in, the plate ready with powdered sugar on top and warm maple syrup in a handmade ceramic gravy-boat by the time she sneaks into the kitchen, brings one arm around his back, pulls herself toward him in order to say _good morning._

“You left me alone,” she says, then kisses the part of his jaw that she can reach on tiptoe. She’s not angry, just missing. _Not anymore,_ he thinks, breathing her in, looking down at the mess of her slept-in braid, the rare uncoiffed form of her. With the garden tucked away for the winter, he’s yearned for this side of her, the one with dirt beneath her nails and sweat on her brow as she pulls weeds. He likes when she can be messy.

While she starts eating breakfast, he pours her a mug of tea, green with mint, like a candy cane for a festive day. The presents are under the tree, all miraculously untouched by the cats, even the big bag of treats he bought them and wrapped up still intact. For breakfast, he sips what’s left of his supply through a metal straw, watching the intricate movements of her fork and knife, noticing how the powdered sugar and butter dissolve into the syrup. Though he lacks a taste for food now, has no need for it, there’s something so alluring about watching her eat what he cooks; even if they can’t share such things, he can at least give an offering to her, a daily series of rituals that brings them together. It’s small, and it’s inconsequential, but when she hums and asks if he’s added extra cinnamon and nutmeg, it feels like romance.

They sit beneath the tree to unwrap gifts as if they’re much younger and still believing fantasies about this holiday. Their stockings, his having been embroidered to show hanging tinsel and a decorated Christmas tree, were empty, but he loved the decoration despite its uselessness, its inability to fulfill its intention. First to be opened, of course, are the gifts for the cats; as soon as Bedelia holds up one wrapped parcel and clicks her tongue twice, the whole brigade comes over in a steady trickle, a few cats emerging from beneath chairs while others hop down from their respective ledges. For the first time, he’s seeing every single cat together, and though he thinks about counting each one, trying to see just how many there are, he stops himself, instead tries to name the ones he knows while she dangles the package above them, smiles warmly at how they each paw at the package and mewl. Eventually, she gives up the package, peels away the wrapping and opens the box to reveal a plethora of toys, some made with feathers and others with little bells, and she encourages everyone to take one, just one, as she leaves the box aside. Morgana, of course, shoves herself into the box first, then emerges with a toy mouse that jingles. So, she wouldn’t choose a shoelace. He’ll have to remember that.

While the cats are occupied, she reaches out for a box, one wrapped with perfectly-creased corners and a bright red bow on top. As she hands it to him, she seems almost embarrassed, a bit shy.

As he slips a finger beneath the seams of the wrapping, she comments, “I hope this can give us greater freedom together.”

He nods, hopes the same, and then pulls the box from the paper. To his surprise, the box is for a camera, and a nice one at that; though it’s compact, it still offers lenses that can be changed, and though the technology seems recent, there is something almost outdated about it, as if it won’t look too modern within their home.

“It’s mirrorless,” she clarifies before he can ask. “I’ve tested the functionality.”

Pulling the camera from the box, he turns the device on, then goes into the digital memory to find a single picture - and a blurry one at that - of one of his bare legs right after he showered, taken from a high-up angle, trying to be discreet. He can’t even remember that moment, standing in their bedroom with her behind him, unable to hear the sound of a shutter that may not even be in this camera click.

“I thought we could manage a passport,” she says, then finds a little blush in her cheeks as she offers, “or print pictures of us together.”

He nods for a moment, would be more than thankful to have a passport again, and then holds the camera up, looks into the viewfinder. In front of him, she sits, knees stacked, leaning onto the palm of one hand; her braid is messy with sleep, and she has the warm, glowing look of someone well fed, not working today, deeply content. She still has a bit of powdered sugar at the corner of her lip. Before she can notice, before she can change position, he takes a picture, then watches as she reacts and takes another.

“ _Together,_ ” she emphasizes, flustered but smiling as she reaches out for him, pulls him to her.

Leaning into his hip, right against hers, he pulls himself to her side, then lets her take the camera and turn it so that the lens faces them. With her head canted toward his, she puts her forefinger to the shutter-button, holds her breath as she takes their first picture together. When he takes the camera back, goes to look at the image, he first sees the blurriness of it, their lack of practice, but what comes through more is that this is the first time he’s ever seen them together. In mirrors, all they see is her, and reflections in water have proven fruitless as well. Though he knows what she looks like, can see his own arm as he reaches out to her, his own legs tangled up with hers in bed, he has never seen their faces together, their bodies so close. He hasn’t even been sure of his own appearance, and now, it seems so foreign to him, so strange and theoretical, but he looks like he did as a younger man, just with older features, paler skin. And she looks beautiful, blonde hair bunched against his head, something halfway between a resting lip and a smile on her face. It’s a breathtaking picture because it exists. He tries to think of somewhere in town that would be open today to print the image, to frame it so that he can keep the picture on top of their mantle and see it each time he brings her lunch.

When she opens the moonstone earrings, the matching necklace and bracelet, he watches her face warm with a smile, something bashful. He wonders if a man has ever given her jewelry before, then wonders why he would flatter himself to think he would be the first. Though she doesn’t wear fine jewelry often, he can picture these pieces paired with one of her beautiful night-out gowns, the stones lively on her collarbone and wrist, as reflective and multifaceted as the person wearing them. For whatever they’ll do for New Year’s, he can see her wearing the jewelry, holding his hand while watching fireworks from high-up, maybe returning to Boston for luxurious festivities. He wants to end the year making her feel special.

Otherwise, his gifts for her are books, beautiful old copies of grimoires from the old country, many of them not in English and hard to find. He had called many bookstores to find such copies, ones in older languages that he couldn’t read, claiming that he wanted a wonderful treat for his wife. When she unwraps each carefully-preserved book, he knows that this is more than simply a treat, that she’ll spend hours going through each book and learning new things, old things, whatever things she can grasp about the power within her, the power within her ancestors, the power of her culture. Now, he’s beginning to grasp what the Morrigan is, how it - or, rather, she, in certain circumstances - relates to Bedelia’s religion; he can see how she respects the earth, how she uses the natural laws of the world to her advantage, how nothing is to be feared but only to be understood and then used for personal power. When she tills the soil in her garden this spring, he knows he’ll understand exactly how much meaning and respect is in each moment. Maybe that’s why even the berries in their freezer appear perfectly fresh when thawed; maybe the quality has less to do with magic and more to do with conscientiousness. Of course, he knows just how conscientious she can be.

There is more space on the higher bookshelves, ones she cannot reach on flat feet, so he brings the books to their new spot, yet to be circulated into the library’s primary organizational structure. As he places the last book, he remembers watching her take books down as if the books were magnetized to her hand, then wonders if she asked him to put the books away merely because she wanted to watch him do so.

Dressed for the movies, they leave the house to find little flurries of snow falling, flakes catching in her hair, landing on the shoulders of her cloak. With the snow-filled graveyard behind her, the headstones halfway-buried, she looks like herself, like the woman he first met and so quickly and easily fell in love with; her eyes are bright, blue and silently powerful, and her aura seems to fit so well here, as if the home and graveyard beyond built themselves in a certain way in order to accommodate her comfortably. For once, she isn’t wearing lipstick as they go out, so he can reach for her leather-gloved hand, pull her close to him and kiss her without a second thought, never minding makeup, never worrying what he could smear or smudge through thoughtless passion. He kisses her with his hands coming to her hips, with her palms against his chest, cheeks flushing with the cold, the air thin and fresh around them. The days are starting to grow longer, and they’re going to print pictures of themselves together, frame some to put over the mantle. In the spring and summer, he’ll accompany her to the market, minding the cashbox while she talks in-depth to a customer about tinctures and syrups. He’ll watch as her long-sleeved dresses shift to sleeveless with a light silk wrap over her shoulders; he’ll garden alongside her, if she permits him to, so that the labor of love is no longer one-sided. Until the Equinox, their days are going to be long and sunny, warming with time and allowing them more moments on the widow’s walk, the front and back porches, a picnic blanket in a local park. If he does manage a passport, he’ll take her to Newfoundland in the summer, bring her out to a faraway point where they can sit in the grasses on a seaside cliff and watch whales in the ocean below while he feeds her grapes and brie. Maybe that would be a good time to ask her to marry him.

Of all things in this next year, that’s what he’s most certain of: he is going to ask her to marry him. The timeline, he knows, doesn’t matter. For him, there is no one else, and he knows there could never be anyone else. The biggest decision now is how to ask and what stones to feature on the ring, whether or not to pick a ring together. Against her lips, he smiles, thinking, _all that’s left are the minute details. I am lucky enough to fret over minutiae._

She lets go, ending with one slow, chaste kiss to his lips, a quiet act of thanks. After Yule, he’s relieved to see just her and the graveyard, just their cars in the drive, just the two of them in front of their home, no one else to attend to. Taking his hand, she pulls him toward the car, cheeks pink, a little smile on her lips.

It’s a merry Christmas indeed.


End file.
